Come Undone
by Onigiri
Summary: Death, violence, squick, gore, language. Graphic stuff. Self destruction, etc. A dark fic in general. Yaoi, Yuri, um, incest, necrophilia. Sadism, masochism, sadomasochism. This is a dirty, dirty fic.


Come Undone  
  
Warnings: Death, violence, squick, gore, language. Graphic stuff. Self destruction, etc. A dark fic in general. Yaoi, Yuri, um, incest, necrophilia. Sadism, masochism, sadomasochism. This is a dirty, dirty fic.  
  
Pairings: Everyone x Everyone implied.  
  
Disclaimers: I don't own any of the characters from the anime Weiss Kruez, or from the movie Quills.  
  
Summary: Weiss Kruez and Quills crossover. Done in a third person POV using Omi as the main character. Enter the world of Omi's mind behind his brilliant smile and discover the psychopath inside. I'm not implying that Omi's a psychopath, I'm just writing this, as a possibility.  
  
  
  
"Let's pretend." Hunched in front of a mirror, the figure stood, fabric creased so that the sides were taken in, giving the form, definition. An arm, encased within that same fabric, powder white, yet, creamed because it could not be pure, creased at the elbow while the fragile, slender hand reached for, the mannequin's head. Drawing away a wig, long, powdered too, only, streaked with gray in an attempt to make things seem more natural. The wig, curled at the top of the scalp and on either side, to frame the face. Both hands, touch the wig and grip it just behind the curls on the side, to pull it over the head, the blonde hair already slicked back, pressed close to the scalp to keep the locks from escaping. Trapping them with the wig, the length of those locks brushing against his back, between his shoulder blades, the bones that stick out as he hunches his shoulders ever more, running sprawled digits down the front of his jacket, teasing the lapels with his finger trails wrinkling the fine brocade.  
  
"My beloved audience…" Pale blue gaze peering into the depths of the reflection, only to lose the room beyond him, the room which confines him now is meaningless. The walls, painted white, but never so while he was here, is again bathed in shadows. Hands slithering up the frame of the mirror, dragging over, caressing the engravings. Ridges, unevenness under the feel of his palms, against his skin, friction for the senses.  
  
"…The Marquis De Sade… has a tale for you…" Stretching his arms, a perfect 'v', with his head at the base of the letter formed by the position of his arms, fingers curled around the frame.  
  
"A tale so terrible, … more horrid then anything you can imagine. It all starts…" He tried a smile, dipping his head in a fashion that meant to shade the upper half of his face with shadows cast by the wig, hiding behind the fall of the hair. "… with, a woman. A gorgeous woman of high status that the men all loved to adore. And she, in return loved to adore them. But there was one boy in particular that she adored with an unquenched passion. She loved him." The pale blue gaze darkening, his head turning to the side of the table where there lay a picture frame, of a girl, in a school uniform, her head turned so that she was gazing behind her. Smiling.  
  
" She loved, and was loved. And died. Aa, Madeline…" Ouka, his mind corrected him. Ouka. His eyes stung, and he widened them, to air them out. To keep them from tearing up. He turned his head to the mirror and smiled into it.  
  
"Madeline…" And this time, his mind kept silent. His hand, the right one curling behind the mirror to feel, to find the handle of a knife strapped against the board, and now as he tightened his fingers around the hilt, he withdrew it. The light played against the silver of the blade, flashing in the light and reflecting a long rectangular reflection on the wall behind where he stood now. The knife, as it was, the blade of it was not straight, but instead, there were curves along the edge, both edges were fine and paper thin, so sharp that hair could be split upon it. At least, that is what could be assumed.  
  
He kept the knife in top condition, polished it frequently as Fujimiya Ran polished his katana. He sharpened it frequently too, to keep the edges keen. He hid it, where no one would think to look for it. Strapped to the back of his mirror. No one wanted to look in the mirror. Even Kudo Youji, as vain as he was. You could tell that he never looked at himself. He saw, only what he wanted to see, and nothing more. Omi now, lifted the dagger over his head. It helped him tell his stories.  
  
"Her death was never avenged. Though, the boy tried, and tried. He was not strong enough to take vengeance for her death. He was then left to purge his darkness, his guilt, with a silver dagger…" Turning in front of the mirror to pull the jacket back with his left hand, baring his shoulder. The shirt underneath was sleeveless. His left hand continued, ritual, and stripped him of the shirt, unzipping it from the back and dragging it down so that he was baring his chest, splaying his fingers against the warm skin and dragging his nails down. Expressionless, he watched, as he exposed his own pale flesh, he'd grown paler as he less visited the sun. Though, he continued to shine without it.  
  
"The boy, like the lady before him, was of a fine body. Fine body. He had fair skin, and…" The left hand, as if guided by the words and less by thought, unbuttoned the pants and unzipped the fly to drag the pants down, the briefs underneath with it to expose more skin, his hand running along to caress his own thighs, eyes staring blankly into the mirror. The mirror that showed him not what lay before it, but what lay inside. "… a tight ass. And there, laying between those firm cheeks, was his guilt."  
  
Standing with his legs slowly spreading apart, and the knees, with the pants hanging at his ankles, bending, so to support his weight, he lets his head tip back so that the wig brushes the lower curve of his shoulder blades, staring at the ceiling. The dagger, he brought with his right hand to draw across his chest, skimming the skin but never marring, nor marking it, his lips pulling apart forcefully to draw in a breath. The door behind him was locked. He was not afraid. He was not nervous. He was no longer here.  
  
"He dreamt of her. And in his dreams, he visited her grave, which, was not like her real tomb. Instead, in his dream, she never left the table of death, but instead, like in a fairy tale he'd once read, she'd been placed in a glass coffin, with a silk sheet covering her, to display her beauty. So that men may continue to adore her, even after death…" The dagger traveled over his stomach, and the muscles tensed beneath its prickling touch. He sighed, and it was a hot one, mingling with the cold air of his room. "… He visited her one night in his dream, and smashed the glass that contained her body, let it shatter, and then pulled from over her, the silk which kept her naked form blanketed…"  
  
Arching his back more, letting his head tip further, the dagger rubbing against his lower stomach, his hand guiding it lower, the tip trailing the length of his cock. He shuddered, but smiled an open mouth smile at the ceiling, the pupils larger and darker with the blood as freely as it was.  
  
"… and there, he peered upon her naked flesh, and let his eyes take in the sight of her cream white skin, the milky mounds which were her breasts. They were never going to be as large as they could've…" The dagger's tip making its way, up, and down the length again, friction that should arouse, but it doesn't. He remains limp and unresponsive, though, he shivers again and the smile broadens on his lips.  
  
"… he knelt, where he'd placed a velveteen pillow next to her display, lowering his knees to kneel before her, bowing his head as if in prayer, only, his lips never moved, except to inhale and exhale a breath, and taste the scent of death…" He turned, then with a flourish of grace, backing himself so that he were pressed against the drawers before the mirror, setting the dagger down to the side then, before pressing the bumpy pads of his palms to the surface of it, pushing. Pushing with both his legs and his hands to press himself further up on the dresser, lifting himself to sit on the edge of it with his back touching the mirror. He didn't need the mirror to see what his mind was portraying now, he was far gone into it. His voice, was no longer his own to his ears, and his actions, were merely those of a puppet, guided by the puppeteer.  
  
"He, even rolled his tongue in his mouth to savor the taste, the scent that told him death had been here not too long ago, but long enough to have called his visit a memory. His hands, smoothed down the cooled body, the skin no longer carrying any color, nor warmth to it. And yet, he longed to touch it, and pretend, yes, the pretense was what he longed for…" His head dropped back once more as his right hand found the dagger, pinning the wig against his skull between it, and the mirror itself.  
  
"… he longed, for her. And now, his temptation was too great He knelt, and took into his mouth, a mound of her dead flesh, trailing his tongue over the nub of flesh that would've once been responsive to his touches…and lo' , her arms came around his neck in this dream…" The tip of the dagger touched his neck just behind the ear now, as he crossed his arms against himself, turning his head so that the wig was moved out of place, dropping his head forward to let the wig slide away, slowly uncrossing his limbs to draw the tip of the dagger across his tensed neck, leaving a very fine pink line.  
  
"… she guided him to kiss her, and kiss her he did. Consumed her lips with his, and stole her breath away, it was a miracle that she even had breath to spare, then, pinning her shoulders with his hands, he climbed atop her, to gaze down into her eyes as her hands, like claws ripped open his shirt, ripped open his breeches…" The dagger making its way down the curves of his chest, his chest filling with each breath, filling so that the flesh was pressed up painfully against the dagger's tip, letting it insert itself just under the skin with each passing of oxygen in his lungs, like a nurse's syringe.  
  
"He wanted her, and he had her then… pushing himself into her soft flesh, it was hot there, and wet, like he'd imagined it to be…pushing, thrusting himself to fill her, to rip her apart from the inside, violent, yet such gentle actions…but then! Then, he looked up with an arching of his own back and saw the figure of Christ upon a cross, and he was screaming the boy's name. Telling him, that he were condemned! Crying, then, tears that were crimson, and dripping down the front of his form, in rivulets! And then, he looked down to his sweet, still within her and saw what he had done! He had imagined her alive and well, and here… here… he had desecrated her body! Nail marks marring the skin between her breasts, he could not even remember when he had reached for her, there… and she was dead. Her eyes staring at the ceiling, like glass. Reflecting but never really seeing. No…" He was breathing harder than he should've been, as if merely telling the story exhausted him, or excited him, one of the other, a brow slightly raised over his left eye. His expression, that of an exasperated man.  
  
"And he awoke… with the feeling of immense guilt. And felt then…" His eyes trailing down his bare flesh then to the dagger in his hands, sitting still with his back against the mirror, the wig was scratching the skin of his back where it stayed trapped. He turned the dagger in his hands, watching the light play off it.  
  
"… felt then, that he needed to be punished." His words were softer now, like they were fading away, his legs lifting so that he were parting them, finding holdings with his toes as he pressed his feet against the handles of the drawers below him, guiding the dagger so that he were pressing it up behind his cock, to the sensitive opening hidden behind its length.  
  
"…punishment to remind him that he were not trying… hard enough…" He parted his lips to draw a few quick breaths, then a few slower ones, before his hand gave a quick thrusting motion and he opened his mouth to scream, only to bite down on his lip and knock his head back against the mirror, hard, as if to partly distract from the pain coursing through him. Blood, dripping onto his stomach from his lip, where he'd ripped it open with his teeth, lapping at the blood like a kitten at a saucer of milk, drawing it back with his tongue and swallowing so that the small Adam's apple on his throat bobbed happily.  
  
His hand limped, and slid the dagger from his private opening, apathetically lifting it to wipe on his thigh, smearing his skin with blood. He sat there, staring at the door, at the wall next to the door, not moving from the edge of that surface. Blindly, his hands searched that same countertop space, for the small square remote used to turn his music on and off. Fingers brushing the course surface that told him where the remote was. The surface was uneven, with various textures, both smooth, and grainy, depending on where his fingertips touched. He pressed the button, and instantly the small confines were filled with soft melodies grazing those white, white walls. They were blinding in his mind's eye.  
  
They weren't even white. They were tan. That's what they really were. He sat, waiting for the pain to drain away from him. If he blinked, he could not remember, nor could he tell that there were any difference at all. None. With a sigh, his head tipped back, trapping the blonde strands once more. Footsteps. Just outside his door he could hear footsteps.  
  
(( Continued. )) 


End file.
